"Rrroarrr!"
The guttural growls multiplied, shaking the ground beneath Harry's feet. The deep, primal sounds slithered through the air like unseen claws, curling around his chest and squeezing. Then came the roar—so loud, so raw—it felt like a physical blow.
Harry dropped to one knee, clutching his ears as pain spiked through his skull.
"WAHH!" A scream cut through the chaos, high-pitched and cracking with terror.
More cries followed, panic spreading like wildfire. Shadows shifted, eyes widened, and bodies crumpled under the invisible weight of something wrong.
Then, it hit him.
A lance of pure agony stabbed into his mind, sharp and insidious, burrowing deep like a parasite. His breath hitched, hands flying to his head. A sensation—like icy whispers slithering into his skull—scratched at the edges of his sanity.
"Agh! What the hell—" His knees buckled.
The whispers.
They weren't words, not exactly.
More like distant voices brushing against his consciousness, murmuring things he wasn't meant to understand.
Then—just as suddenly as it began—the whispers vanished. The suffocating pressure evaporated, leaving only a hollow silence behind.
A faint, blue message flickered into his vision:
[You have overcome the Mental Attack: The Whispers of the Endtalkers.]
Harry exhaled, wiping cold sweat from his brow. His voice came out hoarse. "A mental attack… so that's what it was."
He pushed himself upright, forcing his heart to slow. His eyes flicked around.
The others weren't as lucky.
Some had collapsed, clutching their heads, groaning. Others stood frozen, their eyes glassy with terror, caught in some unseen battle in their minds. A few merely swayed, dazed and barely clinging to reality.
Harry clenched his jaw. This was bad. If they didn't snap out of it—
His grip tightened around the kitchen knife in his hand. His mind raced.
In games, it's always a battle cry. Or some kind of cleansing spell.
He had neither.
But…
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.
"HEY! WAKE UP! THIS ISN'T A ZOMBIE MOVIE—MOVE YOUR BUTTS BEFORE WE BECOME MONSTER SNACKS!"
The ridiculousness of it was enough.
Like a stone breaking the surface of still water, his voice shattered the eerie paralysis.
Tim was the first to react. His eyes blinked rapidly, his body shuddering back to reality. "H-Harry… what are you—" He trailed off, but then his gaze landed on something behind Harry.
His face went bone-white.
"Oh, crap. Oh, crap."
One by one, the others snapped out of their daze, fear replacing confusion as their gazes locked onto the threat.
A trembling voice cut through the tension. "W-What are those things…?"
The growls grew louder. The shadows in the trees shifted.
Then, they stepped into view.
Massive creatures—easily five meters tall—lumbered forward, their hulking forms covered in thick, mottled, grayish-black skin. Their limbs were grotesquely overgrown, thick with corded muscle, and their hands ended in claws that looked sharp enough to cleave through steel.
Above their heads, glowing red names flickered ominously.
[Endtalker]
Harry's breath caught. His mind, however, immediately kicked into analysis mode.
Red names -> High danger.
Usually, the Boss Monsters or absolute nightmares have those.
He took a slow step back, muttering under his breath. "Fantastic. Giant, nightmare monsters. Just my luck."
One of the creatures reached out, its massive claw slamming into a tree. The thick trunk—easily two meters wide—shattered instantly. Splinters exploded through the air.
"Gulp."
His stomach dropped.
Yeah, okay. They're not just dangerous. They're absurdly strong.
"Harry! What are you doing?!"
Tim's voice snapped him out of his trance. His friend grabbed his arm, shaking him. "Stop staring at them! We need to move!"
Harry blinked. Right. Running. Probably a good idea. No, the best one.
The others had already started sprinting, fear overriding their paralysis.
And yet—despite their sheer size—the Endtalkers didn't immediately charge.
Instead, they moved with slow, deliberate steps.
Too slow.
Like they were snails not predators
Harry's stomach twisted.
"Why do I feel like they're even slower than us walking?" he muttered.
Tim yanked at him again, harder. "Harry, COME ON!"
"Alright, alright, I'm going!"
He turned, finally breaking into a sprint.
Then—mid-stride—his vision flickered again. A message appeared in the corner of his eye.
[You have earned 5 End Points for rallying your group and taking action.]
Harry didn't have time to process it.
They ran.
The forest blurred around him. Branches whipped past his face. Roots jutted from the earth, threatening to trip him. Behind them, the distant, monstrous roars of the Endtalkers rumbled, growing fainter but never disappearing.
After what felt like an eternity—though it was likely no more than five or ten minutes—the trees thinned.
A clearing.
Harry skidded to a stop, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Tim nearly crashed into him, stumbling as he wheezed. "Why… why did you stop?"
Harry didn't answer. He was too busy staring ahead.
From two other directions, groups of people emerged, their faces just as pale and terrified.
For a brief, tense moment, the clearing was silent—save for the sound of ragged breathing.
Then, movement.
A young woman with short hair stepped forward, dagger in hand. Her sharp eyes darted around, taking in everything with a battlefield tactician's focus.
Beside her, a tall, wiry man emerged. His clothes were torn, arms scratched, as if he'd just barely escaped a fight. His grip on his crude spear was white-knuckled.
And then—from Harry's own group—another figure stepped forward.
Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A wooden club slung over one shoulder. A permanent scowl.
Harry recognized him immediately.
The guy had been screaming and tripping over roots just minutes ago.
And now?
Now he was strutting forward like he owned the place.
Harry sighed inwardly.
"I can see where this is going…"
It was definitely not going to be fun.